Eve Silver (26 page)

“The rumors of murder are just that—rumors.”

“I do admire your bravery,” Dr. Smythe said solemnly. “But I yet fear for your safety. Craven is not what he seems. Beware, Miss Parrish. Beware. When your desperation eats at your heels, biting at you faster than you can flee, come to the village. I will help you escape. The child as well, if need be.”

“Escape? From what?” Though the day was warm and the sun kissed her skin, Emma wrapped her arms about herself to ward off a chill that ate at her from the inside. “Do you think me a prisoner?”

“Remember, Miss Parrish. Come to me. I
will
help you. And Nicholas.” His gaze strayed from hers, and he scanned the field behind her, his brow furrowing.

“Nicholas!” she exclaimed. “He is in no danger. Lord Anthony loves his son, would protect him at all costs—”

“Love takes many forms, and does not always offer protection.” He made a soft sound of dismay. “Even now he plans—”

He stopped abruptly, his expression turning wary.

“Dr. Smythe,” Emma began, intent on questioning him about the dangers he perceived, and the reason for his allusion to Nicky. What did he think Anthony planned? She found this conversation most distressing, especially so in light of Dr. Smythe’s obvious sincerity. Evidently, he truly perceived great danger, believed she was at risk and, worse yet, that some harm might befall Nicky.

She sucked in a breath, and a familiar scent teased her senses.
Lemon
… Frowning, she leaned toward Dr. Smythe, struggling to isolate that smell.

A twig snapped behind her and Emma whirled around to find Mrs. Bolifer bearing down on her with the haste of an industrious ant. Her face bore an expression of extreme displeasure, with narrowed eyes and downturned lips, and cheeks flushed red with exertion.

Had the lemony medicinal aroma—the one that she recognized from the icehouse, and again from the housekeeper’s apartment—come from Mrs. Bolifer now, carried on the breeze? Or from Dr. Smythe?

“Your jailer, Miss Parrish,” Dr. Smythe said, shaking his head.

The housekeeper’s unexpected arrival seemed to substantiate his claims, and Emma felt a tingle of apprehension.

Mrs. Bolifer was at her side now, huffing and heaving as though the hounds of hell had chased her clear across the county. Her eyes narrowed as they rested on Dr. Smythe, who inclined his head and uttered a cordial greeting. Mrs. Bolifer grunted her reply.

“Time to return, Miss Parrish,” the housekeeper instructed, then turned to Dr. Smythe and said in a low, hard voice, “Mind where you step, doctor. This girl is under Lord Anthony's protection.” Suddenly Mrs. Bolifer seemed less like jailer and more like protective mother hen.

“Perhaps it is Lord Anthony's protection she should fear.” He gestured toward the housekeeper’s empty sleeve. “You are living proof of the man's handiwork.”

“I am, and lucky for it. I’d not be alive today if he had not done what he must.”

“One opinion, to be sure. Though some may not agree.” Dr. Smythe closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them, his expression revealing both sympathy and dismay.

A dull red flush suffused Mrs. Bolifer’s cheeks, and Emma felt caught between these two, as though some knowledge was shared by both yet secreted from her.

“We should return,” Emma urged, uncomfortable with the interplay between them. “Nicky will be looking for me.”

After a protracted pause, Mrs. Bolifer gave a short nod. Emma could feel Dr. Smythe watching her, sense the intensity of his regard upon her retreating back. Her thoughts were a tangled skein. Mrs. Bolifer's sudden appearance seemed to lend some credence to his claims that Emma did not possess the freedom she had assumed was her due.

She shook her head. Dr. Smythe's intimation that she was a prisoner was ridiculous. As was his insinuation that Lord Anthony might do harm to his son.

Sending one last wary glance over her shoulder, Emma saw Dr. Smythe standing exactly as she had left him, shoulders tense, and at his back were the dark clouds of a gathering storm.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The sweet embrace of Morpheus eluded Emma that night. She tossed restlessly, her legs tangling in the bedclothes, her thoughts a snarl of supposition and turbulent emotion. Anthony's face haunted her. His touch, his smell, the green-gold beauty of his eyes—all were elusive wisps held just beyond the realm of consciousness. Each time sleep began to take hold, to carry her to the world of pleasant dreams where she danced beneath the moon held in Anthony's warm embrace, images of Dr. Smythe and a recollection of his disturbing intimations intruded. There, on the threshold of slumber, she found sightless eyes staring at her from heads that floated in oversized jars filled with clear fluid. Smythe's head. Anthony's head.

Delia’s head.

With those terrible images filling her thoughts, Emma finally fell into a troubled sleep.

Hours later, she woke slowly, disoriented. Some noise, some sound had pulled her from a deep slumber. She listened, her ears straining to detect the source of her unease. There was no specific cause of her disquiet, just a sensation that something was not as it had been. Pushing the coverlet aside, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She ran her hand along her cheek, smoothing the strands of hair that had come loose from the braid that hung down her back. The motion of her hand, the stroke of her fingers against the skin of her face brought to mind the glorious warmth of Anthony's caress.

Dropping her hand, Emma swallowed back the lump that clogged her throat, refusing to moon over him in his absence. She sniffed lightly, frowning at the elusive aroma that tantalized her. Anthony. The very air smelled like him, carried the delicious scents of sunshine and sandalwood that she had come to associate with his presence.

Disconcerted by the wayward turn of her thoughts, Emma lit the candle on the bedside table and gasped. Nestled on the far edge of her pillow was a single white rose, the perfect petals partially unfurled. Without thought, she closed her hand around the stem and then cried out in surprise as a thorn pierced her skin. She stared at her finger where a bead of dark blood welled from the cut. Even a child recognized that the beauty of the rose hid the sharp edge of its thorns. She should have known better.

She took her handkerchief from her bedside table and pressed it to the scratch. The rose was a token from her lover. He had stood here watching her sleep. He had placed the rose on her pillow, perhaps rested his hand on her cheek. Touched her hair. She smiled at the realization that Anthony had returned a full day early. To her.

Rising, Emma hesitated, wondering where he was now, and if she should seek him out in his chamber. What exactly was the etiquette of a clandestine affair?

She crossed the room to the washstand and poured fresh water in the basin. Setting aside her bloodied handkerchief, she splashed the tepid water on her face and then raised her head and looked in the glass. Her glance strayed to the reflection of the writing desk that stood behind her. Slowly, she turned, feeling as if she inhabited a dream.

The looking glass had not lied. Piled on the small desk were books. Fully a dozen leather-bound treasures.

Forgetting entirely about her damp face, Emma scrubbed her wet hands against her nightclothes as she crossed the room. She reached out and lifted a volume from the top of the pile, tilting it to catch the light of the candle.
Frankenstein
by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. Emma ran her hand across the leather cover, and then opened the book with reverent care. Published 1818, she read. She stepped closer and peered at the spines of the other books, reading the titles.
Melmoth the Wanderer
by Charles Maturin.
The Romance of the Forest
by Mrs. Ann Radcliffe. Tracing the words with her index finger, Emma recalled her conversation with Anthony as they stood outside the icehouse on an afternoon that seemed an eon ago.

“
Do you, by chance, enjoy the works of Mrs. Radcliffe, Miss Parrish?”

“Yes, I do, my lord.”

“Pray tell me your favorite
. The Mysteries of Udolpho
perhaps? Or
The Romance of the Forest
?

He had listened to her words, and he had bought her books. Gothic novels. Her favorites. They were worth more than gems, or furs, or even...well, Emma could think of no gift that she would have preferred to these gold-stamped volumes. They were an offering from the depths of the heart, the secret chamber where Anthony guarded his emotions, holding them under lock and key. A gift from a lover who knew her heart's desire. Emma laid the book back atop the pile.

Snuffing the candle, she then crossed to the door that separated her chamber from Nicky’s. Allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness, she peered into the room. The moon cast its light across Nicky's sleeping form. He lay on his back, one leg thrown over the covers, both arms flung wide.

She had come here expecting that Lord Anthony was a poor parent, half expecting even worse than that. But she had been wrong. Anthony Craven was a good father.

And he was so much more.

Pulling lightly on the door until only the smallest opening remained, Emma stood poised in the threshold, about to turn away. She paused for one last glance at the sleeping child. Suddenly, the insubstantial illumination of a single flame fell across Nicky's bed. Emma glanced up in surprise and found that Anthony had come to his son's room. She longed to fly across the space that separated them and fling herself into his arms, but she was so new to this role of lover that she was uncertain. Moreover, she was loath to intrude on this private moment between father and son.

Emma smiled, watching as Anthony set his candle on the dresser across from his son's bed. He stood, his face a contrast of light and shadow, and he watched his son sleep. Emma thought he looked sad and tired, haggard, as though a great weight and consternation lay upon his shoulders.

Scraping his fingers through his long hair, Anthony stood at the foot of Nicky's bed. His clothes were rumpled and his jaw darkly shadowed by a day's growth of beard. He looked dangerous. Hard. Emma shivered at the premonition that crawled over her skin, the cold fingers of an ill portent making the fine hairs on her arms stand on end. There was something tragic in this scene, though she could not name it. Anthony bore the look of a man about to do something that did not rest easy on his thoughts.

Suddenly, he glanced up, his green-gold eyes fixed on the door that shielded Emma from view. She pressed against the wall, holding her breath. For a moment she wondered if he could see through the gloom, like a nocturnal hunter fixing its gaze on an unwitting prey. She knew she ought to pull the door shut, to allow the scene the privacy that was its due, or call out, tell him she was there, but something, some sense of doom made her hold to the shadows, unannounced.

Stuff and nonsense
, she thought. ‘Twas too much imagination on her part, and too little common sense. And why in heaven’s name was she even thinking such things?
Because you cannot trust
, a voice whispered through her thoughts.
Because though he is your lover he has shared nothing of himself. Because he left you, and might well have gone straight to the arms of another. One who might make a suitable wife
.

“No.” Her denial was the softest whisper. Oh, why did she allow such treacherous thoughts?

Anthony moved silently across the thick carpet and then sat slowly on the edge of Nicky's bed. The child shifted in his sleep but did not waken when his father took his small hand between his much larger ones. He stroked Nicky's hair back from his brow and leaned forward to press his lips to the child's forehead.

Emma looked away, feeling as though she intruded. When she returned her gaze she saw Anthony take something from his pocket. His shoulders rose and fell on a sigh, as though weighty thoughts encumbered him.

The candlelight caught and reflected off the metal object in Anthony's hand. Emma stood frozen in place, horror congealing in her veins.

Oh, dear heaven! He had a
knife
, a sharp, glittering knife held poised above his sleeping son.

Anthony straightened his shoulders, fingering the blade lightly as if testing the sharpness. What she could see of his expression was resolute. He had reached the point of action.

Her heart twisted, constricting to a painful knot. She could not fathom it, could not imagine that Anthony would do harm to his son. Yet, here he was, clutching the wretched blade. And Dr. Smythe’s warning, so improbable, so impossible only hours past, rang through her thoughts.

And here was the most terrible, tragic tableau, played out in wretched truth. Madness. This was madness.

Breath coming in short, sharp gasps, Emma moved on sheer instinct. She shoved the door open and it slammed into the wall. Nicky stirred and rubbed his eyes, then cried out as Emma threw herself across the bed, using her body as a barrier between Anthony and his son.

She looked up into her lover's eyes, which widened, then narrowed, his surprise giving way to cold, flat wariness. Her gaze shifted to his hand, to the small sharp blade he held in readiness. Her heart pounded and wretched bile clawed its way into her throat. There was no mistake. Anthony stood over his son, his expression resolute, remote, and the blade in his hand could not be mistaken for other than it was.

“Get out,” Emma said, her voice low and hard. She could feel the child quaking within her embrace, and she tightened her hold, pressing his face to her shoulder. Her gaze was trained on the knife. “You will not harm this boy.”

Anthony looked at his hand. The blade glittered in the candlelight, sending rays reflecting off the walls. His eyes met Emma's and she was stunned by the hurt she saw there. Confusion coursed through her, and anger, and a terrible aching regret. Surely he was mad.
Mad. Mad. Mad
.

Dear heaven.

“Go.” Her voice quavered, but she held Anthony’s gaze, intent on protecting Nicky from whatever evil his father intended. She felt as though she were caught in the midst of the most ghastly nightmare, too unreal to be believed. Never could she have imagined such a scene. And even as she lived the reality of it, she could not believe that Anthony would truly injure the child. Even faced with the glittering edge of the blade, a part of her was so very certain that Anthony would never do harm to his son.